Simplicity
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: He loves her. She knows this, and he know this. But sometimes he needs to be reminded. So she seduces him.


_***Author's Note: Set sometime during season eight...obviously...***_

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_"This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover." ~Rabindranath Tagore_

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He is irritated with her. She knows this. He still loves her. She knows this also.

Sometimes he needs to be reminded of this second fact—especially in moments like this, when he is sulking because she didn't side with him on a decision on a case that is now closed.

She is irritated with him. He knows this. She still loves him. She thinks he knows this also.

Again, this second fact is something of which he needs to be reminded, from time to time. Because sometimes _knowing_ isn't the same as _feeling_.

So she seduces him.

She does not seduce him with slinky lingerie or a striptease to some heavy pulsing music (he's seen her dancing skills, or lack thereof, he'd die of laughter first). She does not seduce him with flowery words or beautiful declarations of love eternal (though he does love words, that's the writer in him, always searching for the perfect turn of phrase, sometimes to the point that he will leave the bed in the middle of the night, because he's finally built the perfect sentence and he must write it _now_, before it slips away again). She does not seduce him with breathy innuendos or teasing touches (though she knows how to use them to her advantage, knows what to say and how to say it, to turn him into a flurry of hands and teeth and need). She does not seduce him with apologies, with tearful you-were-right-let's-not-fights (because they aren't those people, because she won't apologize if she's not truly sorry, because she wants her true apologies to _mean_ something).

Instead, she seduces him with simplicity.

She seduces him with a cup of coffee, brought quietly to his office after everyone else is gone, while he is still typing away at this report or that latest writing endeavor (such a night owl, it isn't good for him—he stays out in the field all day, stays up all hours of the night, gets up before dawn, and it worries her, because she thinks eventually that it will catch up to him, it will make him crash and maybe this time she won't be able to pick up the pieces and mend them together again, like she has done so many times before). She seduces him with the unspoken knowing as she sets the mug beside his keyboard, forty-five degrees above his left hand, exactly where he can reach it without ever having to take his eyes off the computer screen, the coffee made exactly how he likes it. She seduces him with silence, with how she doesn't push or ask _what's wrong_ (she already knows that answer, and he hates it when she plays dumb—_you're a smart woman, Erin, don't pretend, it's beneath you_), with how she simply waits for him to speak, to voice the emotions bubbling beneath his brooding exterior, with the way she sits on the edge of the couch in his office, her body language silently saying _I'm here, I'm listening, I know, I'll wait_.

She seduces him with her patience, with her quiet calmness which informs him that regardless of his current state, she has no intention of leaving here without him. She seduces him with the weight of knowing, with the certainty behind her waiting, the reassurance that no matter how angry he gets, no matter what he does or says during that anger (and he can pull some doozies, with that sharp tongue and quick temper of his), she will not abandon him. Not now. Not this time. Not ever again.

She seduces him with the constancy of her love—because he knows that she was just as furious with him as he was with her earlier today, when she was yelling at him for breaching protocol (_yet again, Agent Rossi_), and yet, here she is, sitting in his office at half-past ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, because she knew he would need some coffee and because she can't imagine the thought of going home without him. She seduces him with all the things that her presence declares (_we can be mad as hell at each other, but we're going to be mad together, because I promised to stick it out this time, and I'll be damned if you turn me into a liar, David Rossi_).

She seduces him with her own comfortableness, with how easily she settles into her usual spot on the couch, fingers trailing absentmindedly across the seams in the seat cushions as her mind wanders. She seduces him with her sense of belonging, with how right she looks and feels among his things, in his space, breathing his air, sharing his silence.

None of these overtures are spoken, or perhaps even fully realized in her lover's brain as he taps away at the keys, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to follow his latest thought across the white screen. In that moment, he looks utterly adorable, and she finds herself wanting to kiss the lines between his dark brows. And though she was so close to wringing his neck a mere five hours earlier, she realizes that his simple presence has seduced her as well.

He seduces her with his focus, with how he hasn't even glanced at her since her arrival, with his determination to finish just one more chapter (because he brings that same determination to loving her, to making her sigh in the best of ways, to turning her entire body into an electrical storm of sensation, to kissing her in a way that makes her weak in the knees). He seduces her with his silent acceptance of her little token of reconciliation, with how he reaches for the coffee in complete assurance, with the knowing behind his simple action (he doesn't ask if she made it how he likes it, doesn't ask how she knew that he'd still be here, or that he'd need coffee, because he knows that she simply knows these things, because he trusts her love and its endeavors).

He seduces her with his hair, which is currently disheveled from a day spent running his hands through it in frustration, and how it is in need of a trim (she knows how it feels between her fingers, when she is holding him, when she is loving him with the same focused passion in which he loves her). He seduces her with the lines under his eyes and the five o'clock shadow on his jaw, with the signs of his fatigue that always fill her with compassion and a tender desire to take away those tired things.

He seduces her with his own silence, with how he doesn't launch into a litany of her current transgressions against him, with how he doesn't blame her or yell or do anything other than simply accept her presence (oh, there was a time when he would have done those things, but they are moving into something different now, something that has evolved from lust to love, and it has tapered their reactions, and his current reaction reminds her of this, fills her with warmth at this knowledge). He seduces her with how he simply allows her to be, with how he doesn't ask useless questions like _what's wrong_ (because he already knows that answer, and she hates it when he dances around a question—_shoot straightly, David, say what you mean and mean what you say_), with how he doesn't speak, yet his body language silently tells her that he isn't shutting her out, _I'm here, I know, I'm not ready, please wait_.

He seduces her with the quiet gentleness of his voice when he finally does speak, simply saying, "Good coffee."

And she seduces him with her gentle acceptance of this first tentative step, with the way she nods and gives a small hum to let him know that she has heard him, that she always hears him, even when there's nothing for her to say in return.

He finishes typing his latest thought, saving the document and shutting down his computer.

"Ready to go home, bella?"

He seduces her with this simple question, with the trust and knowing behind the words, with the fact that he already knows the answer and yet he always asks (because he needs her to know that it is her choice, that she always has the choice to walk away, even though he knows it would kill him), with the word _home_ (it doesn't matter which bed they end up in, it's always home if he wakes up next to her), with the softness behind the word _bella_ (she's never thought of herself as beautiful, but when he says it, she always believes it).

"Yes," she answers simply, rising to her feet.

She seduces him with her efficiency, with how she scoops away the coffee mug and heads back to the break room, allowing him to gather his own things at his own pace, never smothering him or doting on him. She moves back to her own office to grab her own things, never waiting for him, never expecting him to walk beside her every step of the way, always allowing him the autonomy that he needs and that she requires in return (that is one thing of which he is never uncertain—he knows that Erin Strauss is with him because she _wants_ him, not because she _needs_ him, and it is refreshing and flattering and sometimes frightening, knowing that this woman of fire and steel desires him above all others, and knowing that she is a woman of fire and steel, with the strength to walk away if he ever makes an irrevocable mistake).

She heads back to the elevator, not entirely surprised to find him waiting patiently beside the metal doors, briefcase in one hand, sports coat hanging over his other arm.

He seduces her with his patience, with his unspoken devotion as he simply waits by the elevators for her (because even though they have fought, he won't allow her to walk to her car alone, because even though he will follow her home, he won't waste a single moment that could be spent in her presence), with all the things that his waiting says (_I'm still here, bella, I'm not giving up, I promised to stick it out this time, and I'll be damned if you turn me into a liar, Erin Strauss_).

The elevator doors open, and they quietly step inside. The doors close again, and he gives a heavy sigh. She sighs, too, in unspoken agreement (_today has been a wringer, babe_). Then he shifts, transferring his coat to his other arm so that his free hand can reach for her.

His hand slips quietly into hers (where it belongs, where it has always belonged) and she tries not to smile too broadly at her victory (_it isn't polite to gloat,_ her mother's voice echoes in her head). Instead, she simply returns the tentative pressure of his fingers with a reassuring squeeze of her own. And though he isn't smiling, she can feel it dancing just beneath the surface of his skin.

Simplicity. Works every time.

* * *

_"Not for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen me the love that would soak down into the centre of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and me the love that keeps the heart still with the fullness of peace." ~Rabindranath Tagore_


End file.
